To Dwell among Cedars

  Books by Connilyn Cossette

  OUT FROM EGYPT

  Counted with the Stars

  Shadow of the Storm

  Wings of the Wind

  CITIES OF REFUGE

  A Light on the Hill

  Shelter of the Most High

  Until the Mountains Fall

  Like Flames in the Night

  THE COVENANT HOUSE

  To Dwell among Cedars

  © 2020 by Connilyn Cossette

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-2809-0

  Scripture quotations are from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version® (ESV®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved. ESV Text Edition: 2016

  This is a work of historical reconstruction; the appearances of certain historical figures are therefore inevitable. All other characters, however, are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover design by Jennifer Parker

  Cover photography by Mike Habermann Photography, LLC

  Map illustration by Samuel T. Campione

  Author is represented by The Steve Laube Agency.

  For my Grandma Ruth,

  whose love for Israel and unwavering support for its people inspired my explorations of the roots of my faith, and whose insistence on standing four-year-old me on a piano bench to sing beloved hymns for her annual holiday gatherings was the foundation of my love of music. “If they won’t listen to you sing, Conni,” she used to say, “then go tell your story to the rocks. Jesus will hear you.” Her memory is a blessing to me and all who knew her, and I cannot wait to worship beside her in the world to come.

  Contents

  Cover

  Books by Connilyn Cossette

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Map

  Part One

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Part Two

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  Questions for Conversation

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  Part One

  In those days there was no king in Israel. Everyone did what was right in his own eyes.

  Judges 21:25

  Now Israel went out to battle against the Philistines. They encamped at Ebenezer, and the Philistines encamped at Aphek. The Philistines drew up in line against Israel, and when the battle spread, Israel was defeated before the Philistines, who killed about four thousand men on the field of battle. And when the people came to the camp, the elders of Israel said, “Why has the LORD defeated us today before the Philistines? Let us bring the ark of the covenant of the LORD here from Shiloh, that it may come among us and save us from the power of our enemies.” So the people sent to Shiloh and brought from there the ark of the covenant of the LORD of hosts, who is enthroned on the cherubim. And the two sons of Eli, Hophni and Phinehas, were there with the ark of the covenant of God.

  As soon as the ark of the covenant of the LORD came into the camp, all Israel gave a mighty shout, so that the earth resounded. And when the Philistines heard the noise of the shouting, they said, “What does this great shouting in the camp of the Hebrews mean?” And when they learned that the ark of the LORD had come to the camp, the Philistines were afraid, for they said, “A god has come into the camp.” And they said, “Woe to us! For nothing like this has happened before. Woe to us! Who can deliver us from the power of these mighty gods? These are the gods who struck the Egyptians with every sort of plague in the wilderness. Take courage, and be men, O Philistines, lest you become slaves to the Hebrews as they have been to you; be men and fight.”

  So the Philistines fought, and Israel was defeated, and they fled, every man to his home. And there was a very great slaughter, for thirty thousand foot soldiers of Israel fell. And the ark of God was captured, and the two sons of Eli, Hophni and Phinehas, died.

  1 Samuel 4:1–11

  One

  Arisa

  1070 BC

  ASHDOD, PHILISTIA

  “Lukio!” I screamed, as a wave crashed over us and yanked my brother’s small hand from mine. He disappeared under the surface, and I lunged into the foamy surf, gasping with relief when I caught hold of his tunic, then gagged as brine hit the back of my throat. My fingers stiff from fear, I pulled upward until he emerged, sputtering seawater. Tightening my grip, I curled my toes into the shifting sand as I fought the insistent pull of the sea and dragged us both to the beach, fighting my exhaustion and the weight of a seven-year-old who stood a head taller than others his age. When we were finally free of the current and the earth was once again firm beneath us, we flopped our sodden bodies on the sand, chests heaving and eyes on the pure blue canopy above.

  “I told you not to go out so far,” I panted, squinting against the glaring sun.

  “But I saw the biggest shell, Risi,” he said, his voice small and contrite. “It was rolling out with the waves. I couldn’t let it get away.”

  “And you should drown yourself for a shell? You have plenty, Lukio, a whole collection.”

  “But—”

  “No. You must listen to me and not wander off,” I said, hoping I sounded enough like our aunt Jacame that he would take me seriously. “You might have been dragged out to sea had I not seen you go under.” Angry tears burned the backs of my eyes.

  Lukio was silent. His wide eyes—one green, one brown—watched me as I railed at him and the shock of what had nearly happened caught up to me.

  “We only have each other,” I whispered, digging my fingers into the gritty sand. “What would I do without you?”

  With a sob he flung himself over me, his arms winding around my neck. “I’m sorry, Risi! I only wanted to get the shell for you. It was a purple one like you like—” The rest of his explanation was lost as his tearful apology muffled against my wet tunic.

&nbs
p; I sat up, pulling him into my lap and gripping his sea-soaked body tight against me. I kissed his head, salt on my lips as I took a deep breath and reassured myself he was safe. The sea hadn’t taken him. We were together, and we were both safe.

  A shadow moved over us, and I looked up to find Jacame frowning at us. “If the two of you are quite finished playing in the water, there are baskets to carry home.”

  “We weren’t playing—” Lukio began.

  “Of course,” I interrupted, not wanting my aunt to know I’d been closing my eyes and humming through the song I’d learned from Azuvah instead of watching my brother. I’d been trying to practice the strange melody and the words in the foreign tongue our Hebrew slave spoke to us whenever my aunt and uncle were not around.

  Pushing Lukio from my lap, I stood and brushed sand off both of us, then turned a bright smile on my aunt. “How can we help?”

  “There are three baskets of goods, and that old woman only has two hands,” said Jacame, as if such a thing were an affront to her. “You children can each take one.”

  My mother’s sister was not unkind to us, but there was little warmth in the woman. The deep lines between her eyes attested to a lifetime of furrowed brows and she had none of the graceful beauty my mother had been famous for. Still, she had been more than generous to take us into her home five years ago when my father dumped us, along with Azuvah, at her threshold before he boarded a ship for the last time, heading back to the distant northern shores his ancestors hailed from.

  Not wanting to chance being separated from Lukio for anything, I dutifully gripped his hand in mine and followed my aunt back up to the market near the port, vowing to never again take my eyes off my brother. He was my responsibility and had been since our mother died giving him life. I loved no one in this world more than Lukio.

  Azuvah, the slave who had been with my family for as long as I could remember, stood waiting for us, three large baskets at her feet. Although her expression remained neutral, her deep brown eyes flitted to my brother and me, relief in their murky depths that made me wonder whether she’d seen Lukio go under the water. The old Hebrew woman saved her smiles and stories and songs only for Lukio and me in private; to Jacame she displayed only blank-faced submission, as was expected of her. Like me, I suspected she would do anything to please my aunt, not wanting to jeopardize her position in the household.

  Once the three market baskets had been distributed—mine full of fish, Azuvah’s a variety of shellfish, and Lukio’s a large bundle of the finest papyrus and an assortment of imported spices—Jacame led us to the river, heedless of the weight we carried for her.

  Lukio had been thrilled when our aunt insisted we accompany her to the port north of the city, not only because it gave him a chance to enjoy the sea, but because it was necessary to ride on one of the shallow-bottomed boats that ferried goods up and down the river. Once he was safely tucked into the hull between Azuvah and me, his eyes sparkled with excitement for the return trip as he watched the men push the vessel away from the shore and begin to row against the current. He was enthralled by every stroke and every guttural command the leader of the team spat at the rowers. But as for me, no matter how lovely the boat’s bird-headed prows might be or how swiftly it cut through the water, I could not help but remember that a ship had been the very means by which our father abandoned us.

  The sun had not even reached its high point by the time the enormous walls of Ashdod rose up before us, the most prestigious of the Five Cities sprawling like an overindulged queen at the conflux of the river and the most important trade road between Egypt and Damascus. Colorful banners danced on the ramparts in the distance, welcoming us home.

  The moment the boat touched land, Jacame hissed at us to disembark with all haste. Messengers had spread word that the army would arrive back in Ashdod today, two months after heading off to war against the Hebrews. With her three sons among its ranks, she was determined to provide them with a lavish homecoming feast this evening, which is why she’d insisted on meticulously tending to every detail. I knew little about this latest struggle against Azuvah’s people but had heard my uncle Harrom describe them as a plague over the hills and valleys to the east. This was only one of many battles we’d fought with the Hebrews since our people had arrived on the shores of this fertile land, but it was the first major one since their champion had brought a temple down on the heads of a large number of our commanders and leaders a few years ago.

  Stumbling as she stepped out of the boat, two of the fish Azuvah carried tumbled out of her basket and plunked into the muddy water with a small splash.

  “Look what you’ve done, you clumsy old woman!” snapped Jacame. “I selected each one of those fish myself! Now we will have two less to serve this evening. The feast will be ruined! I should make you walk back to the fish market and purchase more.”

  Her harsh rebuke was sliced in two by a chorus of horn blasts coming from the direction of the trade road, and I hoped it was enough to make her forget her threat of forcing Azuvah to walk back to the port, a journey that would take many hours.

  My aunt’s face went pale as a hand flew to her heart. “Have they returned already?”

  Another joyful blast of the horns answered her question; the army had indeed returned. All around us people began moving toward the sounds of rhythmic drumbeats and shouts that announced a triumphant arrival.

  The third blast of the rams’ horn rang with such a distinctive warble of victory that it seemed to vibrate my bones. We must have won a great battle against the Hebrews.

  Jacame demanded we hurry, anxious to catch sight of her sons among the long parade of soldiers that would soon be entering the city gates, their long spears held aloft and round shields tucked against broad chests in an impressive show of Philistine military might. She pushed through the crowd, caring nothing for the fact that Azuvah, Lukio, and I still hefted overflowing baskets.

  We allowed the current of bodies to carry us along, keeping pace with the soldiers as they headed toward the center of town, where Dagon stood watch over Ashdod within his imposing and ornate temple, bestowing prosperity and fertility on the people who’d adopted the once foreign god as their own. Today, our victorious soldiers would deliver the spoils of the battle to his feet, and the leaders would offer libations and sacrifices in thanks for his favor.

  “Stay close. I don’t want you to get lost in the crowd,” I said to my wide-eyed brother as the curious crowd around us began to thicken and came to a halt before the temple.

  Lukio pressed in close to me, and I encouraged him to place his basket at his feet like I had and keep a tight hold on my hand. I was unable to see much of anything with the shifting, roiling crowd in my way, but he was enclosed by a wall of bodies and likely frightened by the chaos.

  Through the gaps between shoulders, I caught a glimpse of the commanders of the procession, their bronze-scaled armor flashing in the sunlight and their feathered headdresses regal and bright against the blue sky. At the very front of the parade was the seren himself. The young king of Ashdod perched atop an enormous stallion, his own polished armor bearing the marks of the recent battle, and both his thick-muscled arms were wrapped in linen, evidence of his bravery on the battlefield. One of the tallest and most handsome men I’d ever seen, the seren was known to be ruthless in his dealings with enemies and fearless on the battlefield. Even among the other four kings of Philistia, he stood apart. Regal and well-deserving of his scepter, there was no better man to rule the region. A warm swell of pride in my people and my king rushed through my whole body.

  “What is that?” I asked Jacame when I caught the barest glimpse of something sparkling in the bed of an ox-drawn wagon. “I can’t see.”

  “It’s some sort of box,” said my aunt. “Made of gold and with winged creatures atop the lid. It must be a trophy of the battle, depictions of the gods of the Hebrews, I would guess.”

  God, my mind silently corrected. Azuvah was very firm that her peo
ple only worshiped one god. An all-powerful one. I’d heard stories of Yahweh from her lips since I was tiny, always whispered in secret or sung about in her Hebrew lullabies. It was implicitly understood that the stories of Yahweh and his deeds were to be kept between Azuvah, Lukio, and me, and since I did not want them to end, I had never breathed a word about them to anyone else.

  The urge to see the box for myself pulsed through my limbs. Something about Jacame’s description seemed familiar, and I glanced at Azuvah for confirmation that this golden box was indeed a Hebrew treasure.

  Azuvah was no young woman—her hair had been gray for as long as I remembered—but in the past four years, it seemed her wrinkles had multiplied and her back stooped further every month. I wondered sometimes if her aging had been compounded by her additional labor as a kitchen slave, instead of tending only to Lukio and me as she’d done in my father’s house. But now every remnant of color fled her skin as a look of absolute horror settled into the lines of her face.

  “Mercy,” she whispered in her own tongue, her eyes following the wagon with a strange look of longing as it passed almost directly in front of us. “Have mercy on us.”

  Regardless that the day was warm, with a gentle breeze sweeping around me and brushing across my shoulders, a cold finger of dread slipped up my spine. How could a box frighten her so?

  “Make way!” shouted one of the soldiers. “Make way for the shame of our enemies! Make a path to Dagon!”

  The crowd scuttled back a few steps as the wagon rattled along, and the shift in movement afforded me a few moments to see the golden box with my own eyes. There were indeed some sort of winged creatures, their feathers curled as if in protection over whatever might lay inside. I wished I could ask Azuvah if she knew about the contents, but I dared not speak of it in front of Jacame.

  The crowd jostled again as a loud buzz of voices rose up, mocking, jeering, whistling derisively at the box, like it was the very embodiment of our foes. The closer the soldiers came to the temple porch, the louder the people around us grew. A few pieces of soft fruit were thrown at the box, the pulpy missiles striking its sides with a wet crash. Each time it was hit, the delighted crowd roared, their fervor going nearly wild as the soldiers maneuvered the wagon until the bed was at the steps of the temple of Dagon.